She started as she realized that going home to Constantinople was theoretically an option open to her—but only if she were willing to abandon Isabella. She turned and looked over at the little bed where her daughter lay. She was too weary to get up and go to her, but she did not need to. Even without looking at the child, with her redbrown curls and cherubic face, she knew she would never abandon Isabella—not even to a man as honorable as Tripoli.
Tripoli wanted Isabella safe because he saw her as the true heir to Jerusalem. Furthermore, Tripoli wanted a closer connection to the Eastern Empire. For both reasons, Tripoli intended to keep tight control of Isabella until he could wed her to the man of his choice. But Tripoli was only a man, albeit a powerful one, and no man’s life was certain. Tripoli, too, could die of dysentery as Amalric had, or malaria as Nur-ad-Din had done, or fall from his horse as the Baron d’Ibelin had, or . . . there were so many ways to die.
No, Maria Zoë thought, she could not entrust Isabella to anyone, because no one else would fight for her the way her mother would. Tired as she was, Maria Zoë still sensed the strength that lurked in her. If anyone tried to take Isabella away, or tried to force her into an unsuitable marriage, she would bring down the wrath of God—and the Eastern Empire—upon their head. She crossed herself as she made this vow silently before God.
The knocking on the door startled her and she sat upright, instantly alarmed. Rahel muttered something and went to the door, but did not open it. “Who is there?” she asked.
“The Mother Superior!” came the firm answer.
Rahel looked over her shoulder at her mistress. Maria Zoë nodded and pulled herself together. When the Mother Superior entered she saw a Queen seated stiffly, with her feet perfectly aligned, her back straight, her head high.
“I came to see if you were comfortable, my lady,” the Mother Superior declared, coming deeper into the room, her eye taking in every detail, from the fire to the little rugs Rahel had unpacked and the goblet in Maria Zoë’s hand—which certainly didn’t belong to the convent inventory. Her gaze fell briefly on the sleeping child, and her smile twisted. Then she turned and looked Maria Zoë in the eye.
Maria Zoë met her gaze. ”Thank you, madame. The rooms are very comfortable.”
The Mother Superior stood for a moment with her hands on the tall back of the chair opposite, apparently waiting for Maria Zoë to invite her to sit down. When she did not, the nun walked around to the front of the chair and slowly sank down into it anyway. “Then we should talk.”
Maria Zoë did not agree. She was tired, only slowly warming up, and in no mood to talk to anyone, but she bit her tongue.
“First, I would like to know just how long you intend to stay here,” the Mother Superior asked.
“I don’t know.”
“A week? A month? A year? A lifetime? Surely you can make an estimate,” the Mother Superior countered impatiently.
“More than a month, certainly, and just as certainly not a lifetime,” Maria Zoë answered. “Isabella will reach the age of consent at seven and be marriageable at twelve. I think that is the longest I would stay,” Maria Zoë answered, realizing that, glad as she was to be here for the moment, she truly could not imagine spending the rest of her life here. But then, did she really know her own mind? All her life, other people had told her what she was supposed to do. She had never had the freedom to decide her own fate. And precisely because freedom was such a new, unexpected state, she had not begun to think through all the possibilities it offered. Aside from protecting Isabella, Maria Zoë realized she did not know what she wanted.
“I see,” the Mother Superior answered, obviously displeased. After a moment, she announced: “No one told me you were coming, and no one asked me if I wanted important guests. You will find that life here is not like anything you have known before. This is a silent order, madame. We live in individual cells and do not socialize. We see each other only at Mass and at chapter meetings. We speak only at allotted times, only as necessary—or in circumstances like these, where we are compelled by the outside world to speak. If you think it is cold now, imagine what it is like in the winter. We can have snow up here, but freezing rain is more common. The food is simple, the wine local, and the only music you will hear is the chanting of plainsong. We do not dance or hawk or play games of chess or chance; indeed, even bathing is a luxury we can afford only for special occasions. We bathe in cold water without scents of any kind.”
Maria Zoë was too tired to dissemble. “Why don’t you want me here, madame?”
“I did not say I did not want you.”
“No, but you are doing everything in your power to convince me I do not want to stay.”
“No, I simply want you to know what you will find here.”
“No sympathy from you, that is certain.”
“Did you come here for sympathy?”
“No; for peace and safety. I’m tired of being on display all the time. Tired of being stared at by everyone, criticized for what I do, say, and wear—even the tilt of my head or the way I hold my hands. I’m tired of being a puppet!” The wine on her empty stomach had loosened her tongue.
“Now that I can believe,” the Mother Superior declared with a slight smile as she leaned back in her chair. “Much better than the ‘grieving widow’ pose.”
Maria Zoë started. Was it that obvious that she did not grieve for Amalric—no matter how much she regretted that he was dead?
“Madame, let me be honest with you,” the Mother Superior began. Maria Zoë could not stifle a sarcastic, “By all means, drop this façade of delighted hospitality.”
The Mother Superior acknowledged her quip by lifting the corners of her lips, but her eyes remained as hard as before. “We are a very small community here. Newcomers always disrupt the harmony. Jealousies, rivalries, antagonisms, and disappointments ensue. The presence of a queen—not to mention a small child—will cause trouble. You say you have come here for peace, but you have no idea how little peace there can be among two score women with too much time on their hands.”
Without giving Maria Zoë a chance to speak, the Mother Superior continued. “One of my charges, madame, was brought here by her brothers after she was discovered with a lover below her station. She did not want to be here, and she made escape attempts; when those failed, she tried to kill herself. Another of my charges had been discarded by a husband interested in a wealthier wife; he found churchmen willing to annul his first marriage, and no one in her family was powerful enough to stop him. She was so full of wrath that she poisoned the very air we breathed. Another of my charges came here after she lost her eighth child. She could not bear the thought of conceiving, bearing, and then burying another—but even here, she grieved so intensely we could not sleep at night for her weeping.” She paused and looked at her new guest.
Maria Zoë looked back at her, the goblet of wine held in both hands. “You will find me far less disruptive, madame. I am here of my own free will, and my family is hardly powerless to help me, if I request it. So long as Isabella is well, I have no reason for untoward grief.”
“No, I can see that,” the Mother Superior agreed with a wan smile, “but you are still a young woman, and your daughter is second in line to the throne. I have already been informed that five men-atarms and one knight are to remain here at all times to protect you. The men will rotate in and out, but there will always be six men in the hostel just beyond the walls awaiting your orders—and the Regent’s, of course. That alone is disruptive, madame. I have charges here who were pledged as children; they know nothing of the outside world. Some are frightened of it, and others are attracted to it because it is forbidden fruit.”
“It is not easy to have responsibility for others, madame,” Maria Zoë answered. “That is the hardest burden of nobility, is it not?”
The Mother Superior nodded her head slowly, smiling without mirth. The Dowager Queen was not going to withdraw. She clearly intended to stay here as long as she please
d, regardless of the impact she had on the forty-three other women living here. The Mother Superior got to her feet. “Good. Then we understand each other,” she announced.
“Yes, we do,” Maria Zoë answered. “Good night, madame, and thank you for your warm welcome!” She held out her hand for the Mother Superior to kiss, and the older woman had no choice but to bend and kiss the long white fingers of her Queen, with the ring of Jerusalem on her right ring finger.
Jerusalem, September 1174
Walter, Balian’s squire, was diligently using a metal brush to remove the rust from the rings of Balian’s hauberk. He sat on a chest in Balian’s small chamber with the heavy hauberk across his knees, and the wire teeth of the brush made a distinctive soft scraping sound as he worked it back and forth. His tongue played around his lips as he concentrated on the task.
The youth was sixteen and he had been with Balian for three years, ever since Balian’s first squire refused to continue in his service after he started serving the leper Prince. Walter was the younger son of one of his brother’s knights, a youth with even fewer prospects than Balian himself. After all, his father owned only a new-built manor in a settler town outside of Ramla and had eight children to feed. The fact that Walter was not very adept at arms, despite Balian’s best efforts to train him, did not improve his prospects.
“Walter, did you ever think about going into the Church?” Balian asked casually as he watched his squire work.
“Who, me?” Walter looked up alarmed, a shock of dark hair falling into his face, and he jerked his head to try to shake it out again. His mother was a native woman, a Maronite Christian, who had bequeathed him dark hair and skin.
“I don’t see anyone else in the room,” Balian remarked dryly.
“The Church?” Walter asked back. “Me in the Church?”
“Well, you certainly aren’t going to make your fortune with your sword,” Balian pointed out.
“Ah, well, true,” Walter admitted candidly with a sheepish grin, “but I have other talents.”
“Such as?” Balian pressed him out of idle curiosity.
“I’m very discreet, keep secrets well, have a discerning nose for fine wine and food, can bargain exceptionally well—especially with fishmongers and butchers—”
Balian interrupted his catalogue of virtues with a laugh, pointing out, “All talents that would be well suited to a secular clerk!”
“But I can hardly read and write in French, let alone Latin, and—well—I like the ladies far too much.” His smile was both shy and proud, making Balian throw back his head and laugh, because it was too true. Walter clearly enjoyed considerable success among the younger ladies of the court. But before Balian could retort, they were interrupted by a knock on the door.
Here in the small chamber allotted him as the King’s knight, Balian rarely had visitors, and he assumed this was a summons from the King. “Come in,” he called casually.
The door opened, and a bedraggled street urchin peered into the room with big eyes under a mop of unkempt hair. He was crouching slightly, and his shoulders were hunched as if expecting a blow. He seemed poised for flight even as he inquired, “Sir Balian d’Ibelin?” His eyes darted from knight to squire and settled quickly on Balian.
“Yes?”
“I was promised a dinar if I brought you this.” The boy held out a package wrapped in burlap and tied with twine.
Balian frowned, but made no move to take the strange package. “Who told you that?” he wanted to know.
The boy shrugged. “A lady.”
“A lady?”
The boy nodded solemnly, but tensed, ready to dodge a blow.
“What sort of lady?” Balian asked skeptically, taking the package from the boy at last and weighing it in his hand before handing it over to Walter.
The boy held out his dirty hand. “She promised you’d give me a dinar, sir. I come all the way from Nazareth, sir. She said you’d give me a dinar.”
Walter cut the twine with his eating knife and unrolled the contents from the burlap, gasping when he saw what he held in his hand. “Sir! It’s a book! Look at this! It’s beautiful!”
Balian turned to look at the bound book his squire held out to him, and he too caught his breath. Based only on its size and exterior, the book looked like it was worth as much as a destrier or a suit of mail. It was a gift fit for a king. Suddenly Balian’s pulse was racing. “The lady who gave you this?” he asked the boy urgently. “Was she young?”
The boy nodded vigorously.
“And pretty?”
“Very pretty, and she smelled good—like roses.”
“Maria Zoë Comnena,” Balian grasped, turning to look at the book again.
Walter grinned confirmation, holding out the book opened to the text on the first page: it was in beautiful Greek calligraphy and illustrated with vivid pictures.
“Holy Cross! This book is worth a fortune!” Balian declared, and hastily went to get his purse to pay off the boy. In his amazement over the gift, he gave the boy two dinar instead of one, and then stopped the boy as he turned to scamper away down the stairs. “Wait!” He’d had a second thought. “Did she say the book was meant for the King?” He was waking from his dream: a book like this had to be for the King.
“No, sir. She said I was to give it only to Sir Balian d’Ibelin and no one else, not even the King or the Regent or the Archdeacon of Tyre.”
Balian nodded absently and closed the door, the boy forgotten.
Walter was eagerly leafing through the book page by page, his face lighting up as he discovered one witty and lifelike illustration after another. “This is beautiful!” he exclaimed again, smiling up at his still-stunned master. “Maria Zoë Comnena must think highly of you indeed!”
“What sort of book is it?”
“Not a clue, sir, since I can’t read Greek, but I don’t think it matters. Look at this!” He opened the book to the page with the satin ribbon marker placed in it and held it out to his master. There were no illustrations on either page, but a dried pressed flower lay fragilely upon the parchment.
Balian looked at the flower and up at his squire, more confused than ever.
“Don’t you recognize it, sir?” the squire asked, amused. “It’s a forget-me-not.”
Jerusalem, November 1174
Balian’s chain mail gleamed in the morning sun, from the toes of his chausses to his coif. His helmet, which he held under his arm, had also been burnished until it reflected the sunlight. His surcoat, composed of the cross of Ibelin quartered with the crosses of Jerusalem, was made of freshly dyed Ethiopian cotton, bright and vivid, and he’d invested in a new belt for his sword as well. Balian looked his very best.
“You look splendid, Balian!” the young King exclaimed at the sight of his friend in martial finery. “Oh, I wish I were riding with you! Why shouldn’t I lead my army? Why can’t I?”
“Your grace.” Balian kept his voice calm, understanding the boy’s frustration all too keenly. “You know we cannot risk our King in a campaign like this inside enemy territory.”
“And so I have to stay here? Locked in these rooms? I’m no better off than a canary!”
“By the sound of that growl, I’d call you a caged lion at least,” Balian retorted with a smile, and managed to make Baldwin laugh.
But then the King grew serious again. “I know it’s not your fault, Balian. I know it is Tripoli who will not let me out of my cage. But I’m serious. I’m thirteen. That’s the age other boys start to earn their spurs and learn about warfare. How can you expect me to be King if I know nothing of war?”
“You know a great deal about war,” Balian countered. “You’ve read the Iliad, Thucydides, De Re Militari—”
“That’s all secondhand! I want to go to war! I could dress as your squire,” he proposed.
“Dress like my squire, yes, but not perform a squire’s duties,” Balian reminded the leper softly. Baldwin’s illness had progressed to the point that he could
use neither hand effectively; the fingers were limp and useless, making it impossible for him to grip things. The lack of feeling had also started to creep up his left forearm.
Baldwin looked down, hurt because it was rare for Balian to remind him of his disability. After a moment he admitted, “I know,” adding, “But there ought to be some way I could come as an observer. People know about my illness. People know I can’t fight, but there is no reason I cannot go along, just as many priests and women do.”
Balian saw the logic in that, but it was not his decision to make, so he asked instead: “Have you raised this proposal with Tripoli?”
“Not exactly,” Baldwin admitted, not meeting Balian’s eye. “I mentioned it to William, but he was not supportive.”
“No. I don’t expect he was,” Balian agreed. Baldwin’s former tutor had been appointed Chancellor by the Comte de Tripoli, but William of Tyre was truly a man of peace. Balian suspected the principal reason he had taken the cloth was to avoid having to shed blood. He respected the Archdeacon for that, but it did not make him the best adviser to young Baldwin in this situation.
“You want me to raise this with Tripoli, don’t you?” Balian asked.
“Will you?” Baldwin asked hopefully.
Balian hesitated, but then spoke candidly. “I can raise the issue with Tripoli, but I doubt he will heed me.”
“Why shouldn’t he heed you?”
“Because I am a twenty-five-year-old landless knight with no experience of war myself. I am neither a powerful baron nor a proven knight.”
“But you are the King’s man,” Baldwin told him softly, with great sadness in his eyes.
“Yes, your grace, I am your knight,” Balian assured him.
“Then in the name of God, Sir Balian, be the man I would have been if I had not been struck down by this cruel disease! Be a lion! For I have a lion’s heart, Balian. Really I do!” Baldwin was on the brink of tears.
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